


diamond in the rough, flower-bones and dust

by spicanao



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood and Injury, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, soulstone soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-05 19:46:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicanao/pseuds/spicanao
Summary: It’s a story of the Gods: that when they first created Orsterra, they each offered a piece of themselves to bring life onto the earth. Flame, ice, thunder, wind, light and dark—the essence of the Gods imbued into stone and breathed into existence. Perhaps years of stories distorted fact from fiction, spinning the tale into one of romance and fate. But from childhood Therion learns one thing—his soul is his own, until one day it will belong to another.And if this is the will of the Gods, then he renounces it.(Soulmate AU)





	diamond in the rough, flower-bones and dust

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off of the creation myth I wrote about in chapter 5 of Eight of Cups, but you don't have to read that to understand this :)

There is a story of old whispered into the ears of willing children at night. He remembers his mother, crackling lips and gentle smiles, warm eyes and thinning hair; he remembers her dry hand brushing the sweat-drenched hair from his eyes as she repeated the same tales over and over.

“Your heart is this soulstone,” she had murmured. She’d fiddled with the necklace around his neck, plucking the red gem dangling at the end between her fingertips. “You have a fire inside of you, Theri, and it all belongs to you.”

Maybe when his mother gazed into that stone, she remembered her own, imbued with the winds of the sea, dangling around the neck of a man in death row. Or maybe she thought of the man’s soulstone, hidden at the bottom of the chest beneath their shared bed, the only piece of jewelry she owned still that had been spared from the pawn shop. Her eyes were frigid and distant, but she shook it all away when she looked at Therion again.

“When you’re older, maybe you’ll decide you want to share a piece of yourself with someone else. If the time comes, you’ll know, just like I knew with Papa, hm?”

It’s a story of the Gods: that when they first created Orsterra, they each offered a piece of themselves to bring life onto the earth. Flame, ice, thunder, wind, light and dark—the essence of the Gods imbued into stone and breathed into existence. It’s why some are attuned to one element, and some to many—but each person bears a stone, crafted from a sliver of their soul, that is unique to them alone. And in the world, some may find another that resonates so soundly with their own that they believe themselves destined for each other.

Perhaps years of stories distorted fact from fiction, spinning the tale into one of romance and fate. But from childhood Therion learns one thing—his soul is his own, until one day it will belong to another.

And if this is the will of the Gods, then he renounces it.

Therion peers through the bars of the gaol. His legs ache from running and his cheek stings from the tight-fisted sucker punch to his face. _Smart,_ he wants to say aloud. They’d knocked him out before throwing him in so he couldn’t pull a fast one like the times before.

When he raises his fingers to his lips, they come away bloodied. The taste of iron makes his stomach lurch, but he pushes the discomfort to the back of his mind. It isn’t his most pressing issue. The most pressing issue is the sudden throb in his chest, the brown eyes staring back at him from across the bars.

“You alright there?” a man, tall and lanky, asks. With a head of messy hair and stubble on his chin, he’s not entirely out of place in this dingy old cell—but there’s the fact that he’s on the _other_ side of Therion’s cage, free to roam, wearing an apothecary’s mantle, and Therion knows he does not belong here.

“Peachy,” he snarks, spitting on the floor.

The man shifts uncomfortably, and in the movement, Therion spots a muted blue gem dangling from his wrist, the leather cord of a necklace wrapped several times over into a makeshift bracelet. The azure of the ice soulstone gleams beneath the torchlight of the gaol walls. Narrowing his eyes, Therion finds his hand reaching for the soulstone around his own neck, burning the skin where it touches. The sudden ache in his heart makes sense now. His mother’s words, spoken long ago, ring in his head loud and clear: _soulmates._

So the Gods thought they were funny, huh?

“Hang tight. I’ll get you outta there in one sec!” says the man. Therion opens his mouth to respond, but any question is lost in the sound of retreating footsteps as the man rushes out of the gaol. He sits, rooted on the dirty ground with his back pressed against the wall and confusion riddling his mind. At the end of the hall, a single guard stands watch, face obscured by the steel helmet on his head.

Muffled voices echo from the doorway. “I’m sure you’ve got the wrong guy. My buddy here was with me the whole time!”

“Sir, there are certain procedures we must go through, certain protocols—”

“Hey now, that’s hardly fair. You just grabbed him the moment he stepped through the gates!”

“W-Well,” a guard stutters as the two finally step into view. “I assure you, sir, we had good reason to find him suspicious. It is our sworn duty to protect the king and secure the safety of Atlasdam.”

The apothecary from before crosses his arms, following closely after the guard. “But he didn’t _do_ anything, did he?”

To this, the prison guard hesitates, mouth opening and closing with unspoken words. “Well—not _yet,_ ” he argues, but his voice breaks off weakly and he grumbles under his breath. Shoving the hallway guard in the shoulder, he shoots Therion a scathing glare from beyond the bars. “Let the sorry fool out,” he barks.

The other guard fumbles for the keys before unlocking the door. As the door swings open, the two guards stalk away, leaving Therion staring blankly out of his dimly lit cell. After a moment, he looks up, right into the stranger’s eyes, which are brightened by the flickering flame of the torches.

“Up you go,” he says, offering the thief an arm. Catching the light, the soulstone on his wrist glimmers. But Therion ignores it and pushes himself to his feet, staggering a couple steps as his legs adjust to supporting him again. He dusts himself off and brushes past the man on his way out. “Hold up, uh…”

Therion doesn’t miss a beat, drawing up his hood to shield himself from the sunlight overhead. He scowls as the man follows him, turning but not fully stopping as he gripes out, “What do you want?”

The apothecary grins, hand rising to scratch at the back of his head. “Well,” he starts, “you’re still bleedin’ and I can take a look at that if you want.”

He stops walking and looks over the man. Out in the daylight, he can see him much more clearly—scuffed boots, grass-stained trousers, a green apothecary’s jacket and a ratty old satchel over his shoulder. Brown eyes. A too-wide smile stretched across his lips. An axe on his hip. Therion makes sure to keep an eye on that one.

“That’s pretty generous of you.” Therion meets his smile with a hard stare. “A man like me might wonder what someone so _generous_ expects in return.”

The man’s eyes widen and his lips part into an ‘o’ shape. “Oh, I don’t want anythin’ in return! You just looked like you needed some help, an’ I saw them hassling you by the gate…” His voice trails off, and Therion lets the silence marinate between them, simply staring at the man. Hopefully, he’ll get the picture and just bugger off if he waits long enough.

But he doesn’t.

When the silence seems too unbearable, the man laughs under his breath. “Shucks, I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Alfyn.” He reaches out to Therion, who flinches back at the motion. Pulling his arm back, Alfyn continues, undeterred, “Alfyn Greengrass, an apothecary. Nice to meet you, uh…”

“Why are you doing this?” Therion asks instead.

His words confuse the apothecary, who chews on his lip thoughtfully. “Well, you looked like you were in trouble?”

Therion barks out an incredulous laugh, short-lived and caustic. “You don’t even know me.” But the man doesn’t let up, staring at him in a way that makes his blood boil under his skin. It’s a look of wonderment, of fascination—one that shows that even if his mouth says he expects nothing, Therion _knows_ his intentions are tied with the throbbing pain in his own chest. It’s a pain the stranger probably feels as well, if Therion’s own soulstone is indication enough, reacting so violently to the other man’s presence. It seems to burn him even through the fabric of his shirt, an unfriendly reminder of just _who_ is in front of him.

“Look, mister, you’re still bleedin’, so if I could just take a look at that first and we’ll talk along the way?” asks Alfyn—Alfyn Greengrass, or whatever he claims.

Therion steps back, displeased expression contorting into a grimace. “Look,” he says, “if this is about the gods damned _stone—”_

Alfyn’s brows draw up and he cuts him off. “—So you feel it too?” He presses a hand to his own chest, clutching at the fabric, and the way his hand shakes tells Therion all he needs to know. He looks up at the man, eyes narrowed, and his hand unintentionally rises to press against his chest too. The ache is mutual, heart-wrenching, breathtaking in a horrible sense—because it constricts him the longer he stands before this man, wishing he’d never stepped foot into Atlasdam. While Alfyn’s face doesn’t give away the crushing hollowness he feels, Therion understands first-hand how much it hurts to be so near. Supposedly, first contact could be suffocating, but it would fade away in time.

He doesn’t want to stay around long enough to find out.

He turns on his heel and flees, shoving past civilians and clinging to the shadows of the buildings. He hears Alfyn shout after him and quickens his pace, turning only to judge the distance between them. When all he sees is the apothecary’s wild hair peeking through the top of crowd, growing more distant as each second passes by, he faces forward again and breathes a sigh of relief.

He belongs to himself. His mother was wrong—he’d _never_ want to share a piece of himself with someone else. Not after she died and left him. Not after _Darius._

Nerves bubble in his chest, where the ache continues to claw from his insides. He remembers a time when he’d mistaken Darius for a life partner, when he’d confused admiration and companionship for two-sided trust. That wasn’t love—for Therion knows himself that he does not know how to love. But it was coexistence; it was sharing their lousy lot in life, understanding each other in ways no other person could.

That had been a mistake. And it’s a mistake he never will make again.

 

If there’s one thing he’s overlooked, though, it’s the fact that they can feel each other now.

Therion knows when the other man is near. Alfyn remains in Atlasdam for several days, and Therion’s plans of outstaying the man’s visit fall through. He needs an out, as soon as possible—and so he prepares for his return to Bolderfall.

He chooses early morning for his great escape, when the sun’s just risen over the towering castle walls of Atlasdam and the guards on patrol are too slumber-hungry to pay attention. He pockets fruits from venders, knives from storefronts, and a handful of herbs from unknowing apothecaries, things he knows will not be missed if noticed at all. He passes through the gates and crosses the drawbridge with no problems—and then feels his error like a punch in the gut.

Alfyn leans against the wooden railings of the bridge, peering over the edge to stare at his reflection in the water. He must sense Therion, too, for his head snaps up and he turns to the thief before he can escape.

“Oh!” the apothecary slips out, pushing away from the railing to stand up straight. “Mornin.’”

Therion curses his luck; of all the people that could be fated to him, it’s an early riser. He scowls and starts to move around the man.

“Wait!” says Alfyn, stepping into his path. He holds up his hands in a placating manner but is careful not to come too close. “Please don’t run. Could we just… talk? I won’t take too much of your time, I swear.”

His voice drips with a pleading tone, somewhat desperate and anguished, a tone that erases the glower from Therion’s face and replaces it with tired resignation.

“Three minutes,” he permits.

His words spark immediate change in the apothecary, who brightens up as if he’s received the greatest news in his life. It’s only then that Therion _truly_ takes a good look at the man—from his mop of golden-brown hair, combed in a way that makes it look windswept, to the way his nose scrunches a little and his eyes squint ever so slightly when he smiles. And he smiles a lot, Therion learns. Far too much, considering how early in the day it is.

The thief taps his foot against the ground, crossing his arms. “Time’s ticking,” he reminds him, and the apothecary runs his hand through his hair again—a nervous tic, probably.

“I kind of get the impression that… you’re not too happy about this whole thing.” Alfyn points to his blue gem and motions vaguely toward Therion’s red one. The thief snorts but doesn’t comment. “Which is fine by me! I understand if you’d rather ignore all this, and if you want, I’ll pretend this never happened at all.”

This catches his attention. He uncrosses his arms and arches a brow. “How awfully convenient of you to be so willing,” he drawls. “But if you cornered me here just to say this, then you’re wasting my time. I would’ve been a good way’s down the road by now.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Or is it some payment you want? For busting me out of that gaol.”

Alfyn shakes his head immediately. “No!” But then he scratches his chin and offers a small, wry smile, marred with embarrassment. “Well… I did have a favor to ask. But it’s not because I expected payment or anythin’, honest! Count that whole thing as done with and behind our backs now.”

Again, Therion gives an incredulous scoff, but the pressure in his chest eases off ever so slightly, as if a part of him believes him. He still maintains a distance, though, and makes a point of looking past the apothecary to the path he’s blocking him from. The yellowed sky is nearly blue again, sunrise passing them by, and he regrets giving the apothecary even three minutes. He should’ve been just past the sign at the split road by now.

“Alright, out with it. What do you want?”

The man makes a strange face as if trying to sort out his words. Then, Alfyn unceremoniously blurts out, “Where are you headed? Do ya think I could travel with you for a while?”

He blinks. Therion stands stunned and Alfyn fiddles with his arms, seemingly waiting with bated breath. Wrenching himself from his surprise, the thief opens his mouth, but no words come out. He swallows and tries again, “What in the hells are you talking about?”

“Well,” Alfyn says, forcing out a laugh, “I just thought—well, I thought it would be nice to travel with some company. Just as two folks headed the same way, if you _are_ headed in the same direction, that is.”

Therion can’t keep himself from staring dumbly ahead. “And why would I want that?”

Alfyn’s certainty seems to falter and he almost sounds confused himself. “I noticed you were waitin’ around the edge of town for a couple’a days an’ figured you were waiting for a good time to leave.”

He stares blankly until a short burst of laughter fills his throat. So—while he’d been waiting for him to leave, the man had been waiting for _him?_ He resists the urge to press his face into his hands, instead sizing the apothecary up. All the while, Alfyn watches him with an expression that doesn’t look offended, but more intrigued.

“Do you honestly expect me to say yes?” Therion laughs, an airy sound. Derisive.

The apothecary’s smile, small and polite, doesn’t slip from his face. He shrugs. “Couldn’t say I had much hope,” he admits.

Therion glances to the man’s arms. They’re not as toned as a mercenary’s or a warrior’s—or anyone who’d trained years to build up muscle, but they do look like they can hold up their own weight. He recalls the axe and realizes the man must be used to swinging the thing around. Then he looks ahead into the wide expanse of traveler-trodden roads, riddled with monsters and thugs.

An apothecary, huh. It wouldn’t be so bad, a little extra security. He can shake him off the moment he makes any attempt at this soulmate bullshit.

Alfyn doesn’t take his eyes off of him. Keeping his expression neutral, the thief asks, “Where are you going?”

The taller man perks up. “Clearbrook!”

Not too far from Bolderfall. Close enough. He could be useful somewhere down the line. He makes his way past Alfyn, stopping only at the end of the bridge to tilt his head back at him. “We don’t talk about this,” Therion says, pointing to his chest, to the pendant around his neck. “Ever.”

Understanding flashes across the other man’s face and he nods—up, down, up, down; so enthusiastically that Therion finds himself all at once dumbstruck yet… satisfied? He feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders in the simple motion.

Alfyn jogs to catch up to him, one hand holding the strap of his satchel. He leans toward Therion, that same smile stretched from ear to ear. “So, I never got your name…?”

Therion pauses, running over a list of fake names in his head, but sighs and changes his mind. “Therion.”

“Therion—has a nice ring to it. And where are _you_ headed?”

He pulls up his scarf, pressing his nose into the familiar warmth of its fabric, and continues onward without looking at the apothecary. “Somewhere far,” he says, and keeps it at that.

He doesn’t notice that the hollowness in his chest doesn’t pang as noticeably anymore until they’re far past the gates of Atlasdam, his new companion whistling some annoying tune as Therion plots out the nearest town to dump him at.

 

The first days of their journey are an odd mix of one-sided conversation and silence. Therion mostly keeps to himself, leading the way and moving them from the main road when he hears others in their path. When Alfyn asks him why he does this, he looks at the apothecary like he’s a ghost, unable to keep the horror from his voice when he hisses, “Do you talk to _everybody_ you see on the road?”

Alfyn nods as if he hasn’t done anything wrong. “Some folks need help. And if I’m around, I do what I can.”

Therion coughs out a laugh, but it comes out strained. “Some ‘folks’ are also rogues that could turn out your pockets and leave you dead on the road.”

“True, but that’s less likely than a stranger in need.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, the thief quickens his pace, leaving the apothecary to stumble after him with a “Hold up, Therion!” on his lips. How can anybody be so blindly trusting? Normally, Therion doesn’t care enough about how other people live their lives if he can help it. He’s no stranger to cutting corners, to delving into unorthodox ways to get himself fed. But _this,_ this whole streak of generosity grates on his nerves. It’s a wonder that Alfyn is still alive today if his trust in humanity has led to such a… naïve sense of security.

“You travel a lot?” he finds himself asking, if only to sate his curiosity. It’s one of the few times he’s broken their silence first, and Alfyn’s surprise glows on his face. “I’m just wondering how you’re still alive.”

“Aw, c’mon Therion,” the apothecary laughs. As they walk, he stoops down to snatch a few flowers from the ground, stashing them away in his overstuffed bag. “Truth be told, this is the first time I’ve gotten so far from home.”

Therion makes a startled sound. “From Clearbrook?”

“The one an’ only.”

“How the _hell_ did you make it this far?” he asks. In his mind, he maps out the distance between the small village and the castle city of Atlasdam—several _weeks’_ worth of journeying. And he’d done it alone?

“Well, people aren’t as bad as you make ‘em out to be. Plenty of folks just mind their own business… and the ones who ask for help are the ones who really need it.” He stops walking and squats, fumbling with something in the dirt. “Sometimes—” he grunts, pulling hard at a weed, “—you just need to believe a little.”

But Therion doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t think he ever will. The idea of giving anyone an edge over him—or worse, ever being on the other end, asking for help—doesn’t sit well with him. Alfyn continues picking up flowers and weeds, and Therion continues walking, expecting him to catch up with him once he’s finished. When the apothecary remains rooted, though, the thief trudges back to where he sits.

“What are you doing exactly?” he asks. Alfyn glances up at him as if he’s forgotten his surroundings. He shoots up from his crouch and hurriedly dusts off his trousers.

“Sorry about that, I got a bit distracted is all,” he says, holding out his palms. Small flowers pile up into a little mountain in his hands, a jumbled mix of reds, oranges, yellows and blues. Therion stands a little closer to inspect them.

“Herbs?” he guesses.

“Hah, I wish!” Alfyn reaches into his bag to pull out a journal, flipping open the pages. Inside, Therion sees an array of herbs and plants, carefully pressed into the pages, lines and arrows drawn in to point to different parts of the plants. In the back of the book, Alfyn presents several pages of whole flowers and petals, decoratively arranged to fill in the empty spaces. Unlike the others, these pages don’t have notes written into the margins. They’re just filled to the brim with vibrant flowers.

Alfyn slides the flowers in his hand onto the book. “I promised my best friend’s sister—Nina’s her name—that I’d bring back as many new flowers as I can for her. Clearbrook is, well it’s a small place, and we don’t have much variety when it comes to scenery.”

Therion watches, transfixed, as the apothecary closes the book, sealing the flowers within. It’s mind-boggling, he thinks—that those dusty, grass-stained fingers are capable of preserving something so delicate. He thinks of the flowers that grow on the unreachable ledges of the Cliftlands and how he’d dream of picking them for his mother. But she would scold him for taking the life of something so pretty, and he’d talk himself out of it.

The way Alfyn does it, it feels like cheating life and death—for his flowers remain pretty, even though they’re dead; they don’t crumble in his hands, fading with the sickeningly sweet stench of decay. And for that, he’s almost impressed. Envious.

 “Therion?” Alfyn calls, looking at him with a curious expression on his face. “You alright there?”

He glimpses a hint of yellow by his foot. Leaning down, Therion plucks the flower by its stem, pulling it free from the loose dirt. It feels small in his hands. He drops the flower into Alfyn’s hands, where the book sits closed.

He doesn’t answer. Therion holds his gaze for a few seconds before turning away, thinking of flowers and hands and thoughts he hasn’t touched in years—all things life and death and control. And if he feels Alfyn’s gaze on him long after, he ignores it.

 

Nights are the worst.

As close as they are to the Frostlands, where spring doesn’t come until the rest of the world sees summer, the nights bring a chill that clings to his bones and bites at his skin. Therion’s mantle is far too thin and old to keep any warmth in, so he starts a fire in spite of all the warnings his mind tells him. Smoke and flame bring unwanted guests more often than not, he knows. But the cold will kill him first if he lets it.

Still, the fire flickers every time a breeze shifts through them, and he finds it isn’t enough. Alfyn holds up well in the cold, probably because he’s attuned to ice (Therion tries not to look at the soulstone around his wrist.) But the thief, even after living in abandoned buildings and sleeping on streets for years, trembles.

To his credit, Alfyn notices immediately, worry etched in the way his lips press into a thin line. “Do you want to use my bedroll?” he asks, holding up the bundle of blankets. His frown deepens when Therion shakes his head, teeth gritted to keep them from clacking. “Therion. You look deathly pale and you’re shivering like a drenched cat. C’mere.”

“’M fine,” Therion grumbles out, hugging his knees. “Worry about yourself.” He presses close to the fire and wills himself to sleep. Their journey come morning will be far slower and arduous than before. He expects they will hit snow within a few days.

Therion doesn’t look at Alfyn’s face, but he knows the man is unhappy with his refusal. Regardless, he leaves him be, tucking in for the night as well.

He drifts to sleep with the sights and sounds of crackling fire dancing in his mind. In his dreams, his mind shuffles through familiar images: the small shack he’d grown up in, not too far from the main slum towns of Bolderfall; the way the looming red rocks of the cliffs had always felt like a bowl to him, trapping him inside. They were like that, too, when he looked up at them from the lowest levels of the canyon, bones broken, lungs heaving, shoulder out of place in so many different ways—eyes wide, but unseeing as the darkness fell over the cliffs and left him to his solitary thoughts amidst the crows and croons of beasts.

Red. So much red. It leaked from every inch of him. His coughs were wet. Something was _in_ him but he didn’t know _what._ The fall was a blur—but the weightless feeling, it made it feel like his chest was being torn from him, wrenched upward as the rest of him descended. He remembers reaching up, fingers clawing for a hold only to see the disappearing green of a mantle grow more distant between his fingers. And that laugh—

Something seizes him by the shoulder and he releases a shuddering breath. His mind feels sticky, as if he’s forcibly peeling it away from unconsciousness into the conscious world. Blinking wildly, Therion reaches up, grabbing his attacker by the collar of his shirt, and shoves.

“Therion,” says the voice. “Therion, it’s me. You’re dreaming, but you’re awake now. Hey.”

Pushing himself away, he scrambles backward until his back hits the trunk of a tree. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust, and when it does, he finds Alfyn kneeling by the fire where he had been, arm half-raised towards him.

“Therion?” the apothecary asks, voice small and uncertain.

“I…” His breath comes hard and heavy, forcing its way out of his lungs. “What were you _doing?”_

Alfyn avoids his eyes, looking at the ground instead. “You were having a nightmare, and I…” His voice fades away, leaving him to fill in the blanks. Therion’s eyes flicker towards Alfyn’s hands as they press against his chest, clutching the fabric. He looks like he’s in pain.

_Oh._

His own hand flies to push against the rapid thumping in his chest. His heart feels flimsy, beating hurriedly, but he can sense himself calming down. He takes a deep breath, watching as Alfyn does the same, no longer feeling his distress so strongly in their odd, annoying shared connection.

It had been a horrible idea to travel together. Of course they couldn’t ignore the damn thing with their souls. _It’s never that easy_ , he thinks, curling in on himself, focusing on the ins and outs of his breath.

“Therion?” Alfyn calls out again, and this time, he sounds closer. Therion doesn’t look up, pressing his face into his arm. “I’m gonna head back to sleep, but.” He feels something heavy drape over his shoulders, smothering him. “Stay warm, okay? Give a holler if you need me. For anything.”

The apothecary stumbles back to his bedroll, shuffling around until at last all is silent in their camp. Therion looks up to see the man’s back facing him, hair untied and falling messily around his neck. He pulls the blanket more securely around his shoulders and closes his eyes, too tired to keep them open anymore. The blanket smells like grass and flowers.

He hates the way falling back asleep feels easier.

 

They never speak of it, though it happens several times again—Therion having near heart-attacks in his sleep and Alfyn feeling every thread of pain each time. The fact that their souls are connected is an indisputable thing. But Therion remembers his conditions for Alfyn—to never bring up the obvious _thing_ hanging between them—and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to talk about it. It means he won’t have to challenge those confusing questions his mind thinks of sometimes, and instead focus on their path ahead.

But the pressure in his chest whenever the apothecary is near is different, now. He might even say less severe. Where his first contact with Alfyn had left his insides twisting and his lungs scraping for breath, the current him has grown accustomed to the sensation. Perhaps it’s because they’ve traveled much longer together—a few weeks—or that he’s simply used to Alfyn.

With snow covering their path for miles, Alfyn no longer stops to pick up flowers. Instead, he talks much more, commenting on the simple things—the weather, the shapes of the trees, that sound in the distance. Therion doesn’t mind the babble as much as he used to. It gives him something to focus on other than the words in his head. He listens to it mostly as background noise, but sometimes he pays attention to the stories.

“Clearbrook’s a small place, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Alfyn tells Therion. “We’re a cozy little community. The Great Pestilence hit the Riverlands hard, but we pulled through.” He wades through the snow like it’s water. “Say, Therion. Will you tell me where you’re headed yet?’

Therion grunts as he follows in the apothecary’s path, shoving his feet through the other man’s ready-made tracks. The whiteness around him is blinding, reflecting the sun’s light. “Why do you want to know so badly?”

Alfyn hums, the low timbres of his voice buzzing against Therion’s ears. “Just curious. Is it far from Clearbrook? Hey, you should stay for a while if you’re passin’ through!”

“I won’t be passing through. I’m stopping at Bolderfall.”

The apothecary stops in his tracks, turning to look at him. “Bolderfall! I reckon that’s a day’s walk from Clearbrook. I didn’t know we’d be so close,” he says.

“Well, I didn’t tell you.” He’s at a loss for why he even tells him now. Therion carefully trudges through the thick snow, cringing when he feels a dampness soak into his shoes. At their next stop into town, he definitely needs to fix his wardrobe.

Alfyn stares after him. “You’re an interesting guy, Therion. I’m sure Zeph would love to meet ya, if you ever swing by Clearbrook.”

“Zeph?” He keeps walking, listening to the slushing sound behind him as the apothecary strides up to his side.

“Nina’s brother, my close friend. We grew up together.” He chuckles under his breath and pats his satchel. “He’s the only reason I was in Atlasdam at all. He’s got a sweetheart—Mercedes—who’s his soulmate, but they’re doin’ a long distance thing.” Realizing his mistake, he clams up, but continues awkwardly, “And I’m the messenger. He owes me big time for this.”

Therion ignores the way he stumbles over his words and asks instead, “So why didn’t he go himself?”

“Oh, he’s the head apothecary of our village, an’ he’s got Nina to take care of. I wanted to go sightseeing anyway, so I volunteered.”

“You’re a long way from Clearbrook.”

Alfyn tilts his head. “And you’re a long way from Bolderfall. What brought _you_ to Atlasdam?”

“None of your business.” Truth be told, he doesn’t have the answer himself. These past few years have been a blur of constant motion—moving from one town to the next, searching for his next target. Trying to avoid any sense of the word ‘home’ or the lack thereof.

Therion hikes up a hill and stops to catch his breath. Before him, a wide sea of white spreads from each corner of his view. Above him, powdery flakes begin to drift down. He glances up, palm open, and reaches toward the sky. The moment the snow touches his skin, it melts into water, sliding down his arm like a single teardrop.

He doesn’t hear Alfyn say anything, so he turns around, expecting to see the lumbering giant still making his way up. But Alfyn stands only a foot away from him, so close that when Therion turns, he’s caught in the wispy cloud of the apothecary’s breath. The taller man looks down at him, eyes trained on his face. He doesn’t move—neither of them do. Therion feels an electricity build up in his chest, warm and confusing, freezing him in his spot. He opens his mouth to say something and the movement seems to break the spell, snapping Alfyn out of his trance. The apothecary backs up, nervous laughter bubbling in his chest.

“What are you thinking?” he asks Therion when the thief doesn’t look away from him.

“You’re strange.”

Alfyn coughs and his eyes squint again into that quiet smile on his lips. “That’s not a compliment, is it.” It’s not a question, but an exasperated statement, spoken as if he _knows_ Therion.

He feels a little silly then, like the nervous energy has gotten to him, too. Disoriented, Therion starts his way down the hill. He ignores the rapid drumming beneath his skin. “That’s the best you’re getting out of me,” he tells him. Alfyn groans and yells for him to slow down.

 _I don’t like this,_ he thinks. It feels like everything’s slipping through the cracks of his palms—sand falling too fast, collecting at his feet. Pieces of himself that he can’t catch. He feels a change coming that, whether he likes it or not, consumes him. Because when did the thought of someone  _knowing_ him make him happy?

 

Alfyn gives him his blanket when Therion falls asleep before him. He thinks he's sneaky, but how else would the thief wake up to a blanket around him in the mornings? Therion doesn't  _not_ notice. He also doesn't  _not_ notice each time Alfyn clears his throat, claiming allergies have made his throat scratchy.

 

The first signs of warning come in a sore throat and coughing. Alfyn coughs a lot by the time they’re deep into the Frostlands and the stone cathedrals of Flamesgrace are still a speck in the distance. Therion knows foreshadowing when he sees it, and he urges them into a faster pace. Alfyn doesn’t seem to notice himself—how sluggish he is, how much harder he pants. But Therion feels the weariness in his own bones, resonating in his own chest, and he knows he’s in trouble. The apothecary grows weaker with each step, responding to his questions much more slowly if at all. Therion hates that the one time he can walk in peace and quiet is overshadowed by the fear that Alfyn will trip down the slippery slopes of the mountains. "A little farther," he urges. And Alfyn smiles that gods damned smile, listening to Therion as he always does, ambling along the snowy ledges.

"I'll be careful, Therion," the apothecary insists even as his footing slips and he catches himself. And Therion asks himself why he even  _cares,_ grabbing the man by the arm and holding him upright. He drags them onward as the snow billows around them.

 

“Single room for two,” he tells the innkeeper.

The woman glances through the room keys she has mounted on the wall and raises a brow at them. “Two beds or one?”

“Two.”

“That’ll be a hundred thirty-one leaves.”

He slides the money over the counter, praying Alfyn has energy enough to last a few more minutes before passing out. It’s a wonder he’s even standing. His eyes gloss over in haze and he sways when he moves, unable to walk in a straight line. Therion can’t help but roll his eyes at the irony of it all—shouldn’t apothecaries know better than this? But he focuses instead on guiding the taller man to their quarters.

“Alfyn,” he says, unlocking the door. “Hey.”

“Sorry, Therion, just a little… tired.”

“Lie down. I’ll find us something to eat.”

He leaves him sitting at the end of the bed, slipping back out of the room with the soft click of the door sounding his departure. For a fleeting moment, Therion considers where he’d be if he just left right now, abandoning the apothecary in the room, returning to the road like nothing happened. He’d be far away from this mess—of dumb twinges in his chest and stupid soulstones. He’d travel to the far reaches of Orsterra and avoid Alfyn like the plague. Maybe then his life would return to normal.

But he doesn’t hightail it out of the inn. Instead, he sighs and returns to the front desk, asking the woman if there’s any food to be served for his ill companion.

When Therion returns to their room, he finds Alfyn sprawled out on the bed, forearm pressed against his forehead. “Alfyn,” he says, moving toward the bed. “You should eat.”

The apothecary makes a noncommittal grunt, barely moving an inch. He pulls his arm away from his eyes and stares at Therion for a long time, face red. “Therion,” he mumbles. “I think I’ve got a fever.”

The thief scoffs, setting his platter of meat and bread onto the nightstand. “Pretty sure you do, so you should eat and go back to sleep.”

“In my bag,” he starts again, vaguely pointing at the floor, “there’s a bottle… purple stuff. Could ya hand it to me?”

Therion rummages through the bag and procures the small bottle. He pops the cork off and gives it a light sniff—flowery and minty. Handing the bottle to Alfyn, he waits until the other man has a tight grasp on it before he releases. “Thanks,” murmurs Alfyn, downing it. He leans back into his pillow and drifts off into sleep.

Therion watches him for a while, checking for the rise and fall of the apothecary’s chest. His gaze falls to the gem dangling from Alfyn’s wrist, its blue seemingly mocking him. He doesn’t notice his own hand reaching for his necklace until the stone burns his fingertips. It's not nearly as hot as before, though. The flame feels weak, dwindling. Therion's chest feels hollow—a different sort of hollow, like something is being severed from him. The connection feels weak.

 _Alfyn._ He finds his thoughts filled with the name, repeating over and over again. Alfyn Alfyn Alfyn Alfyn. It's like his soul's calling for the other man, sensing him fading. He clenches his fist and paces the room, returning every few steps to stand at the foot of the apothecary's bed. Therion lingers there for a long time before tearing his eyes away from the slumbering man, moving to his own bed.

The softness of the mattress practically envelops him, soothing his sore legs and aching shoulders. He takes one of the platters the innkeeper had given him and chews on his own meal, swallowing each bite of sandpaper down and chasing the bland taste with a swig of water. For once, his mind is blank— _too_ blank. He can’t stand sitting still, doing nothing.

The discomfort wringing in his gut… helplessness? Powerlessness? All he knows is that he's grown used to Alfyn—used to his presence, to the sound of his voice, to the way he looks at him when he thinks Therion isn't looking. And to have him so suddenly  _gone_ is _—_

From the other bed, Alfyn’s breathing becomes harsher. In sleep, his expression contorts, pinching into one of pain, until the apothecary opens his eyes. “Therion?”

Therion rises from his bed, padding to the other end of the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nn, water,” Alfyn says, trying to push himself up but failing. He flops back onto the mattress with a thump. Therion grabs a glass of water and presses the rim of the cup against his lips, tilting it. Alfyn parts his dry lips and swallows.

“Maybe I should find you a doctor,” Therion says, setting the cup back down once it’s drained. “This doesn’t look like a regular fever.”

Again, his only response is a garbled mumble. The thief rises to leave, to ask around for a doctor or maybe one of those nuns at the cathedral, when he’s yanked back with a firm grip. “No.”

“Wha—”

“Don’t need a doctor,” Alfyn says, his voice scratchy. He opens his eyes with an unclouded gaze, staring into Therion’s own, brown eyes piercing into him. “Just stay here. I’ll be fine.”

“Alfyn, you’re sick.”

“No, just… I don’t want to be alone.”

When he says this, his voice cracks and he averts his eyes, throwing his arm back over his face. His shoulders rise each time he takes a breath. Therion stands, helpless, at the edge of the bed.

A laugh fills his ears, weak and interrupted by several coughs. “It’s childish, I know,” says Alfyn, still not meeting his eyes. “This is the first time, though, since Ma died. Gettin’ sick, I mean.”

_Oh._

He’s far away from his home town, stranded in the middle of a snowy land with only a thief to call company. He hadn’t even known Alfyn’s mother had left him behind, too, but then again, he’d never asked. Looking at the apothecary now, he recalls nights like this, years ago—lying on that moldy bed, traitorous tears slipping from his eyes from the fever.  _I don't want to be alone,_ he remembers whispering into the darkness.

Therion doesn’t know why he does it (but maybe, secretly, he does). He presses his palm over Alfyn’s forehead, brushing away the sweat-drenched strands of hair, and doesn’t flinch away when Alfyn leans into the touch. When Alfyn looks up at him, it’s with a familiar tenderness in his eyes, a fondness that fills Therion with that buzzing electricity that’s become a frequent occurrence. He looks at him and he can’t say he feels nothing.

After a while, Alfyn shuts his eyes, a deep rumble in his throat as he snores softly. Therion sits beside him until he feels himself slipping away, too, fading and fading until he slumps, folding across him like a blanket.

 

_“We’re not equals. You’re nothing but a stepping stool to me.”_

Again, he falls. Again, the terror that seizes him is unfounded—because he _knows_ this dream, knows he is falling, knows what he’ll find at the bottom. But he can’t do anything about it; Therion’s succumbed to his fate of watching the death of his former self over and over again.

(Why can’t he control these dreams? They’re _his,_ aren’t they? Or is this control another thing he has to give up?)

He screams for his body to move. He shouts for someone to hear him. But nothing, no one responds. He's alone, always, drowning in the sound of his own thoughts. Sleep paralysis coils around his body, chaining him down. It’s like static in his blood, screaming against his ears. He feels himself crying but can’t move to wipe away the tears. Alone.  _Someone._

“Therion,” he hears, calling from a distance. “You’re dreaming again,” the voice says, and repeats itself until the words echo in his mind, until it is sure that Therion hears it.

And so he opens his eyes to brown ones peering back. He feels the weight of his own body against the mattress, sinking into the bed—feels proof of his existence in the _here_ and _now,_ not the _back then._ But even more—he feels the other man's existence, stronger than before, beside his own. He doesn't feel alone. Alfyn lies across from him, watching him closely but not touching. He waits for Therion to breathe normally again before he asks, “Can I touch you?”

In the haze of sleep, Therion is tired. Therion is weak. He still doesn’t feel in control. But Therion finds, within the darkness of their room, that Alfyn would listen to him even if he said no, would respect his wishes as he always does. So he sucks in a breath and says, “Yes.”

The first touch is hesitant, fluttering fingertips that trace the outline of his scar on his face. He can feel the subtle burning of Alfyn’s fever beneath his skin, but the warmth is soothing. Therion watches him as he draws closer, breath hitching when Alfyn knocks his forehead against his own. They close their eyes, and under the cover of the night, when the other man reaches over him, hand on his chest, to pull him closer, their soulstones brush and he feels _free_.

“You’re here, you’re breathing,” whispers Alfyn, and it sounds like a prayer against his skin. “It’s okay to feel.”

Therion feels the words carve into his heart, etching deeply into his soul. He sleeps, and for once, he doesn’t dream of falling.

 

He awakes first to the crushing weight of another on him. His body tenses in panic before he freezes, willing himself to calm down and _think._ Vague memories of the night before come back slowly, and he feels the blood rush to his face as Alfyn shifts beside him, a thin line of drool running from the corner of his mouth.

_Gods._

His chest feels warm, a fluttering in his ribcage that refuses to stop. Therion squirms so he’s more comfortable and not suffocating in the other man’s iron-grip. It’s strange, having another body beside his. Warm.

Now that his mind isn’t addled with the lingering hold of sleep, he can think more clearly. He’s calmer than he’d expected—a little numb.

The bed dips beside him. “Therion?” Alfyn mumbles out, and when he turns, he finds the apothecary staring straight at him. His feverish flush is gone, replaced only with concern. “Are you okay?”

He blinks. “I don’t think so.”

Alfyn nods. “Can you tell me what you’re thinkin’ about?”

“Everything.” He looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. “Nothing.”

Alfyn reaches forward but pauses before his fingers touch him. He looks to Therion for confirmation, and Therion shuts his eyes and nods. Again, those fingers seem to ground him, anchoring his mind to his body. Even with his eyes closed, he follows the movement of Alfyn’s hand as it traces his jawline and falls to his chest. When he presses his fingertips against his soulstone, Therion lets out a breath he doesn't know he's holding.

He speaks first, opening his eyes. “I don’t know what this means.”

Alfyn looks confused. “Us? Uh, well, if you don’t want it to mea—”

“No.” Therion reaches over and takes hold of the other man’s wrist, thumb just barely brushing against Alfyn’s soulstone. The man visibly shudders. “I don’t know what this _feeling_ means. I don’t know if I _want_ to know.” Because all his life, he’s wanted control, wanted to be the one to choose his lot in life. All his life, it’s slipped out of his hold to pile at his feet.

Understanding flashes in Alfyn’s eyes and he nods. He asks, “What do you _know_ you want, Therion?”

He stares at Therion, waiting. He leaves it all in his hands, neither pushing nor taking—just offering. Offering him a choice.

Therion takes a deep breath. He's afraid even as he tells him, honestly, “I don't want to be alone.”

The apothecary’s smile is gentle, his eyes warm. “I'd rather not leave you either." And it’s not like the words are anything special, not like Alfyn’s acting any differently—but Therion feels a relief swell within him, and the pressure in his chest is entirely gone. He feels light. He feels _embarrassed._ He nods.

Alfyn continues, nonplussed, “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, or you about me. But, _Gods,_ Therion, do I think you’re the most amazin’ person I’ve ever met.”

“You met me in a _gaol.”_

“And you ran away from me! But it doesn’t change my mind one bit. You’re a lot kinder than you let on, and you’re strong, and you’re gentle, and you’re _really, really_ pretty. Is it too soon for that?”

“Pretty.” He can’t feel his face anymore. He throws it into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. More to the Gods above, he grumbles out, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” This moron is who he's stuck with?

Alfyn laughs. “I am _not._ I’m sorry, you’ve probably caught me staring a couple times—but you’re _really_ pretty, Therion, and sometimes I want to just—”

He reaches over, large hand falling atop his head.

“—touch your hair.”

Therion doesn’t flinch away from the touch. It’s a not-so-foreign sensation, one that brings back memories that he’d thought were scabbed over. He grabs Alfyn by the wrist and revels in the way the other man’s hand slides into his own. Embarrassment fills him once more.

“So you’ll come to Clearbrook with me?” Alfyn asks, and it seems the early morning hours have caught up with him at last. His voice sounds sleepy. Therion feels his own eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Nina and Zeph'll want to meet you."

Therion hums, and while the noise might sound disinterested, it's nothing compared to the thrumming of his heart in his ears. But he feels comfortable. He mumbles, “Yeah, whatever.”

Alfyn nods, sitting up. He begins to unravel the cord of his blue soulstone from his wrist so it is no longer a bracelet, but a necklace, shyly glancing at him through his bangs. Therion, confused, sits up too. The apothecary holds the necklace out, offering. "Is this okay?"

Slowly, Therion reaches up to unclasp his own necklace. He feels the other man's eyes following his movement and swallows nervously before, clenching the pendant's cord in one fist, he holds it out to Alfyn.

The apothecary turns red, breathy laugh bubbling out of him. He vibrates in anticipation. "Can you, um, put it on me?"

They twist around each other, clumsy arms fumbling with the clasps, until Therion feels around his neck the weight of a soulstone that isn't his but  _is_ his at the same time. And somehow, he feels lighter than ever before. Alfyn looks at him, red soulstone around his neck, and they stare at each other until Therion can't help it—he laughs.

The laugh is contagious. Alfyn gapes at him, eyes wide and startled, until his lips quirk, too, and he's laughing with him. They fall back onto the bed, chests heaving, and Therion feels himself all at once relaxed and silly and giddy.

A part of Therion might have died once, years ago at the bottom of the Cliftlands. But it doesn’t mean the rest of him dies. Whatever this is—it’s a beginning.

He closes his eyes and, when he sleeps, dreams of flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me @chillshroom on tumblr, or more recently @nyoomiq on twitter!!


End file.
